


11 Pipers Piping

by PoeFaraday



Series: 12 Days of Musketeermas [2]
Category: The Musketeers (2014)
Genre: Blow Jobs, Hair-pulling, M/M, Multi, Voyeurism, slight domme undertones
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-12-13
Updated: 2014-12-13
Packaged: 2018-03-01 10:00:11
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,390
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/2769062
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/PoeFaraday/pseuds/PoeFaraday
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Constance has a lot of gingerbread houses to decorate for the class Christmas party. Naturally, Aramis and d'Artagnan are no help at all.</p>
            </blockquote>





	11 Pipers Piping

**Author's Note:**

  * For [breathtaken](https://archiveofourown.org/users/breathtaken/gifts).



> For @breathtaken, who helped me see "pipers piping" in a very creative way.

“Will you two cut that out? For the last time, we need the icing to hold the pieces together. Stop eating it!”

 

Constance had shanghaied Aramis and d’Artagnan into service building gingerbread houses for the class Christmas party. Though, to be fair, both had offered their services, and Constance had merely accepted the help. Now that they were actually sitting in her kitchen and she was trying to get the houses built, she was starting to regret that decision. They had managed to put together one of the gingerbread houses, and after that, it had all kind of devolved into d’Artagnan pitching candies across the table into Aramis’s mouth, and the two of them stealing licks of icing from the pouch.

 

“Oh, come on, Constance,” d’Artagnan whines. “You didn’t say we were going to be making a bloody gingerbread township.”

 

“I said gingerbread houses. Houses. Plural. We have an entire classroom to decorate,” she replies, nearly all vestiges of her patience gone. She snatches up the pouch of icing and begins furiously piping it onto the gabled roof of the second gingerbread house.

 

D’Artagnan groans, crossing his arms on the table and resting his chin on them. “Well, perhaps if you’d give us a job instead of doing the whole thing yourself…”

 

Constance heaves a sigh, chewing her lip for a moment. “Look, alright. I’m sorry. I guess I shouldn’t have asked if I was going to do it all myself. I just need to get this done, and I thought a few extra hands would help, but… I don’t know, it’s probably best if I just do it.”

 

Aramis raises an eyebrow at her, leaning back in his chair and folding his arms across his teal V-neck. “So we’re just here to improve the scenery?” he asks with the ghost of a smile.

 

Constance chuckles a little, her face relaxing in relief. “Well, I suppose I am glad for the company. And you two certainly do look good in my kitchen.”

 

“Well, if we can’t help in building the gingerbread houses, we may as well be good for something,” Aramis concedes, standing up and stretching. “And if that something is being eye candy… I suppose I can’t object. Right, d’Artagnan?”

 

D’Artagnan sits up quickly, color rising in his golden cheeks. “Ah… yeah. Absolutely.” And suddenly Aramis is behind him, and he’s practically squirming in his seat.

 

“We may as well give the lady something to enjoy while she’s working,” Aramis purrs, leaning forward on d’Artagnan’s shoulders. D’Artagnan swallows heavily as Aramis’s cheek presses against his hair, and he can tell they’re both looking at Constance - though with decidedly different expressions. “After all, stress is the enemy of proper gingerbread decorating.”

 

Constance looks up, presumably to make some comment about how that’s not even a scientific fact, but the words die on her tongue the second she makes eye contact. Aramis’s gaze, coupled with that delicious grin on his face, are doing terrible, awful, thoroughly salacious things to her insides and she very nearly drops the icing pouch.

 

“D’Artagnan…”

 

The younger man nearly flinches at Aramis’s purr in his ear, but he recovers quickly. “Uh… yeah?”

 

Aramis catches him under the chin with a curved forefinger, turning his face until their lips meet. D’Artagnan’s eyes widen in surprise for just a moment, but there’s always been something enchanting about Aramis’s lips and he begins to melt right away. They kiss, and it quickly turns deep and hungry, and Aramis’s hot tongue swipes across d’Artagnan’s plush lips until d’Artagnan parts them and their tongues battle in his mouth.

 

Constance is so wrapped up in watching the way Aramis kisses that she doesn’t notice that he’s managed to snake one hand into d’Artagnan’s hair and the other down to open the boy’s trousers until d’Artagnan gives just the slightest little gasp. She has to admit, she truly admires Aramis’s way; he’s just about mastered the art of knowing exactly what techniques to use in what situations. He can make sex last for seventeen hours or seventeen minutes, and neither is superior in quality to the other. If it had been anyone else, she probably would have chided them for interrupting her work, but these are her two favorite boys, and Aramis knows how to get everyone involved, even if not everyone is naked.

 

She watches as Aramis kisses a path down d’Artagnan’s neck, moving around the front of his chair to continue over his chest. Aramis rucks up the front of his shirt to kiss over his smooth golden stomach, following the thin line of black hair that disappears behind his scarlet cotton boxers. Constance can see the thick ridge of d’Artagnan’s erection and wonders how long he’d been sat there like that, suffering in silence. His eyes are closed, his lips parted, and as Aramis slips the waistband of those red-as-sin boxers over her boy’s cock, his eyebrows knit up and he releases the slightest whine. Aramis’s lips press further south as he drags d’Artagnan’s boxers, nudging his hips with his knuckles in silent command. D’Artagnan lifts his ass off the chair so that Aramis can slide his jeans and boxers down over his ass, letting the fabric pool below his knees while Aramis continues working his lips down d’Artagnan’s thighs.

 

Constance remembers to breathe just as Aramis closes his mouth around d’Artagnan’s cock, and even then, she only breathes in a tiny gasp. Her blue eyes are blown wide, watching as d’Artagnan arches up from the chair, his thighs falling slack as Aramis sucks him into his mouth. A long, needy whine fills Constance’s kitchen as d’Artagnan’s dark eyebrows knit up in the center of his forehead, his lips parted in a silent plea.

 

Aramis works diligently, his tongue sliding effortlessly over every inch of d’Artagnan’s aching cock. He sucks at the head, his mouth firm enough to make d’Artagnan whine, but not so firm as to be uncomfortable. His fingers reach lower, to take hold of his partner’s balls, testing their weight in his hand and squeezing gently. D’Artagnan’s fingers knot in Aramis’s unruly hair, tugging enough to draw a broken moan out of the man’s throat. The vibrations the sound sends coursing through d’Artagnan’s throbbing cock make him thrust his left hand out to grab the table to anchor himself.

 

“Pull his hair again.”

 

The sound of Constance’s voice startles even her. It’s lower, huskier, thick with the pulse of desire that thrummed through her body, making her cardigan feel a little too hot on her shoulders. A surprised but compliant moan tears free from d’Artagnan’s lips, and he tugs again on the fistful he has of Aramis’s hair. Aramis’s breath hitches, and he whines, redoubling his efforts and sliding his mouth more quickly up and down d’Artagnan’s shaft.

 

Constance, now even more fully aroused now that she’s discovered the power she holds over her two beautiful boys, speaks again, slipping a hand into her knickers and stroking a finger against her clit. “Aramis… scratch his chest.”

 

Aramis rakes his fingernails down d’Artagnan’s chest, earning a high-pitched keen and a jerk of the younger man’s hips.

 

“Suck him slower.”

 

Aramis reduces his speed, but makes up for it by upping the intensity of his tongue against d’Artagnan’s cock.

 

“No… faster. I want him to come in your mouth.”

 

No sooner has she said it than d’Artagnan is bucking his hips. Constance practically shouts another command.

 

“Hold him - don’t let him come yet! Hold his hips, Aramis. Wait til I’m ready.”

 

Aramis throws an arm over d’Artagnan’s hips, making the boy half-sob with need. Constance slips two fingers inside her soaking wet hole, sighing and fighting to keep her eyes open and on her boys.

 

“Alright. Listen to me, d’Artagnan,” she commands, “I’m going to count to five, and we’re both going to come. Ready?”

 

He whines.

“Five...four...three...two…” she can barely say the word “one,” and she’s shaking apart, whimpering and shivering hard, her pussy tightening around her fingers. D’Artagnan’s hips jerk upward into Aramis’s throat, and though Aramis’s eyes fly open, startled, he groans in need, swallowing every last bit of d’Artagnan’s release.

 

Minutes later, once they’re all thoroughly relaxed and boneless, Constance lets out a beautiful, melodic sigh and sits up.

  
“Should probably wash my hands. These gingerbread houses aren’t going to finish themselves.”


End file.
